


Reducto

by Dramione_Vincet_Semper



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate History, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Hogwarts, Manipulative Dumbledore, Slow Burn, Spy Severus Snape
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-14
Updated: 2016-04-28
Packaged: 2018-06-02 04:09:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6550171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dramione_Vincet_Semper/pseuds/Dramione_Vincet_Semper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Draco learns to find himself, Hermione learns to ground herself, and everyone else discovers that the world isn't split into good people and Death Eaters: a lesson that's come none too soon, because the Dark Lord is back, but not everyone knows it. Canon-compliant through GoF.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: An Accord

**Author's Note:**

> AU idea I had a while back: how would the plot change, how much would Draco's character change, had the Dark Lord moved into the manor *immediately* following his return to a body? This fic is the result of that musing.
> 
> So first of all, I have to give a HUGE thanks to Burrsquee. She's a dear friend and my first beta, and she dedicated a lot of time to whipping this into shape with me. I wouldn't have been able to write this without her. Thanks NT!

Severus

_ 30 September 1994, Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire, England _

‘You will forgive me if I am...taken aback, by your reaching out to me regarding this matter.’

’I believe the situation requires a deft hand. You cannot pretend that you haven't noticed it.’

He had. The Dark Mark had become more pronounced with each passing day, and Severus would be lying if he said it didn’t worry him.

‘I see no cause for concern,’ he said anyway. ‘Should not we be glad of the return of our Lord?’

‘This isn’t about the Dark Lord, Severus. This is about my son.’

Severus traced a sallow finger along the rim of the wineglass, from which he had no intention to drink. He was sat in Malfoy Manor, having been summoned there by Lucius Malfoy. While he had rather hoped (and that was saying something, considering how much he  _ loathed  _ it) that Malfoy had only wanted a report on Draco’s marks and behaviour, those hopes had been abruptly dashed.

‘It’s getting brighter every day. Stronger,’ Lucius said. ‘My son… he is too young—’

‘Should you not be  _ glad _ that our Lord is returning?’ he repeated. Years without the Dark Lord’s wrath to contend with had loosened tongues, it seemed. But there was no longer room for any folly; not with the Dark Lord's impending return looming over them all.

‘Do not play games with me, Severus. You know that Draco does not have the disposition that serving the Dark Lord would require.’

That, Severus thought, was irrevocably the truth. Draco Malfoy, while a  _ decent _ student, was still an insufferable child, caught up in the minutiae of schoolboy politics and House Quidditch matches. He would not last particularly long were he to take the Mark. Except…

‘You know that when he returns, he will expect the Malfoys to fully support and serve him.  _ All _ of the Malfoys.’

Lucius slid his goblet around in his grasp, as though absent of mind, before taking a sip of what Severus strongly suspected to be something rather more potent than the elderflower wine he’d been given upon his arrival.

‘The Dark Lord will not be particularly pleased with me, as you know,’ Lucius said at length. ‘So long as I can regain my position at his right hand, then this conversation will be rendered unnecessary. But the Dark Lord is… unpredictable.’ He paused and took a sip. ‘As you know,’ he repeated.

Severus ignored him.

‘He will want to know why you claimed the Imperius.’

Lucius sighed and seemed to deflate just a little bit, but he looked all the more human for it.

‘Quite.’

A pause. The silence deepened, lengthened, until Severus could have sworn under the influence of Veritaserum that he could  _ hear  _ Lucius’ thoughts churning from across the desk between them. It was as though one had unstoppered a Pensieve’s worth of memories, and left them to replay all at once.

‘I had a son to consider,’ Lucius said. ‘But the Dark Lord will not take kindly to that excuse.’

‘Why is it you’ve sought me out, Lucius? You know that once the Dark Lord has returned, I will not be able to help you.’

‘I am aware of your abilities, Severus.’

‘As is every member of the Dark Lord’s inner circle,’ Severus reminded him. ‘What of them?’

Lucius fixed a glare upon him then, and inflated back up to his fullest height.

‘I thought we were agreed that you should not play games with me,’ he said. ‘Teach him.’

‘Which?’

‘Both.’

Severus traced the mouth of his wineglass, around and around and around.

‘You mean for him to be collected?’

‘I would rather Draco be used as a valuable tool, than disposed of as a liability. Wouldn’t you?’

Around and around and around. Severus considered how much to reveal, how much to offer… But Lucius Malfoy, he knew, was a dangerous person to give any edge where previously he’d had none, and so he decided to keep his thoughts to himself.

He’d kept his betrayal, his true allegiance, a secret since before the Dark Lord’s fall. It would not do to reveal himself right before his Lord arose once more.

‘Very well,’ said Severus, after a lengthy pause for effect. ‘But you will owe me a favour.’

Lucius raised a brow, his business face back in place. ‘And what might that be?’

‘I haven’t yet decided,’ Severus drawled, before setting his untouched glass of wine on the desk between them and rising to his feet. ‘But you shall know the moment I have.’


	2. Chapter 1: Of Poppies and Magnolias

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tempers are tested, toast is munched, and prefect patrol duty does not go as planned...

Draco

_6 September 1995, Slytherin Dormitories, Hogwarts, Scotland_

Draco Malfoy stared at his ceiling. Well, not _at_ it, per se; he stared straight through it, straight through the castle above him and straight through the sky, all the way back to Wiltshire, stared unashamedly at the... _thing_ that had consumed his thoughts all summer.

The summer had not gone well for Draco, and he had a feeling that his situation would not improve any time soon.

He had the sinking, unsettling feeling deep in his stomach that things were only going to get worse, because the Dark Lord was back, and Draco couldn’t forget his _eyes_.

Red eyes, red like the morning sun but so impossibly _cold_. Red eyes mocking him and everything he’d ever known over his teacup—or rather, the Malfoy heirloom tea set, which the Dark Lord had seemingly taken a liking to—in their drawing room, the porcelain looking far too frail and delicate in those hands so very like large, pale spiders…

And he couldn’t tell anyone about the eyes. Or the screams, or the blood… He couldn’t tell anybody at all, because having the Dark Lord sat in your family lounge was just a little bit incriminating.

Draco Malfoy stared through the ceiling, feeling very, very lost.

 

::

 

‘Out of my way, Potter,’ he snarled, trying to reach the bulletin board in the Entrance Hall, which was surrounded by an early morning babble of students—Potter chief among them.

‘Shove off, Malfoy,’ said Potter, who didn’t even _bother_ to turn in Draco’s direction.

Draco relished in the conflict; this, at least, was familiar.

‘Don’t pretend _you_ actually have anything important to look at, Potter. I know they picked the Weasel over you to be Prefect—’

Only then did Potter turn, hand digging into the pocket of his robe—

‘Are you threatening a _Prefect_ , Potter?’ he asked, smirking and gesturing at the silver badge on his chest. ‘Now, let’s see how many house points you actually _have_ since the term hasn’t properly started yet… Let’s go ahead and take all fifteen, then, for threatening me.’

All fifteen of the glistening rubies filtered out of their hourglass, putting the Gryffindors in last place before classes had even begun.

Potter glowered, his wand still clenched in his fist as he (rather sensibly) walked away. Draco smirked at his retreating back.

Once Potter had disappeared into the Great Hall, Draco turned to the bulletin board and scanned the patrol schedule. He didn’t see his name beside Pansy’s, so he skipped further down the list. He wasn’t at all bothered by it—she was _all right_ , he supposed, but he would sooner do his rounds on his own than have her Spellotaped to his hip all term long.

It was when he _did_ find his name that partnering with Pansy began to sound downright inviting.

 _“Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger — Weekday evenings — second rotation”_. It was a simple enough sentence, but it took several moments for its meaning to sink in, and when it did he stormed into the Great Hall, scanning the Slytherin table for— there, between Pucey and Montague—

‘Cassius!’ he said, grinding to a halt right behind the older Slytherin. Cassius Warrington had been made Head Boy, and if anyone could _fix this_ , it would be him.

‘Hey, Draco,’ said the Head Boy. ‘Good one on making Prefect—’

‘Thanks, Cassius, but this isn’t a social visit. I need a new patrol partner.’

Cassius frowned. ‘Sorry, mate, but that schedule came straight from Dumbledore. I couldn’t change it even if I wanted to.’

‘What’s he _playing_ at?’ Draco asked, tossing a glare over his shoulder to the staff table; Dumbledore was making conversation with Snape, who looked almost as pleased to be there as he had at the Manor—all summer—which was to say, not at all.

Cassius shrugged. ‘Might be a new thing, since, you know… our guest.’

Draco nodded; everyone who was anyone in Slytherin knew that the Ministry was interfering at Hogwarts in a very big way. ‘Still, couldn’t have picked a better time to start doing his job, could he?’

‘Who’d he pair you up with?’ Cassius asked, breaking through the stream of his thoughts before they could properly begin to flood his senses. ‘I’m with the Head Girl, so I can’t complain.’

‘She’s fit,’ added Pucey, grinning a little.

‘Yeah, well, _my_ partner is about as fit as a beaver,’ he muttered, turning towards the Gryffindor table. She was sat next to Potty, munching on a piece of toast over a copy of _The Daily Prophet_.

Montague winced. ‘Tough luck, Malfoy,’ he said. ‘I know she’s not exactly your favourite person.’

‘Could you understate that a little more?’

‘Could be worse,’ Cassius said, but then he was cut off by the stomping of feet as Pansy marched up to the table.

‘Warrington!’

‘Parkinson,’ said Cassius, managing a smile rather than a grimace at her stern tone.

‘I am _not_ doing all of my patrols for the term with _Weasley!_ ’

Cassius merely nodded his head towards the staff table and said, ‘Looks like your partner’s just as chuffed as you are.’

‘But Professor—!’

‘I am afraid, Mr. Weasley, that there is nothing I can do,’ said McGonagall in her loud, Scottish trill. ‘Now, if you would excuse me, I would like to enjoy my breakfast in relative peace. I suggest you do the same.’

‘Draco—Draco and I can switch, I don’t care who you have, switch me!’ Pansy said, latching onto Draco’s arm.

‘The old bat’d have your badges,’ Cassius said at once.

‘That might be better than putting up with Granger all term…’

‘You’re with _Granger?_ ’ Pansy’s eyes bugged out. ‘Oh Merlin. I don’t know which is worse—’

‘Thanks, Pans,’ Draco deadpanned.

‘Any time,’ she said, patting him on the bicep.

 

::

 

Questioning every minute whether he wouldn’t rather just hand in his badge, Draco met Granger that night in the Entrance Hall for their patrol. And the next night, and the next, every passing patrol punctuated with reminders of how much each despised the other. She glared at him every time he spoke (although, in all fairness, he only spoke to insult her), and he needled her at every opportunity he got. By the end of the night on Monday, he was dreading the rest of the term; by Thursday, he’d had enough of her entirely, and had made it his goal to push her to her breaking point… whatever that might be. If he could find it, and exploit it, then maybe, just _maybe_ she’d hand in her badge, and he could be rid of her once and for all.

It was on this hopeful note that he sauntered up to her that Friday evening, twenty minutes past the time he had been meant to meet her.

‘Where have you _been?_ ’ she snapped, and he smirked at how predictable she’d proven to be.

‘What do you mean, Granger?’

‘Don’t play innocent with me. You’re late.’

He affected his most cherubic expression, simply to infuriate her all the more. ‘Why, on my way here, of course. It’s not like I have anything better to do on a Friday night. It was simply a long walk—’

She huffed, stomping away towards the grounds to start their rounds. ‘I’m sure. It’s not as though I had to walk down _seven floors_ to meet you here. I have no idea how difficult it must be to have six fewer floors to contend with!’

‘You’re getting better with your mental maths, Granger. Soon you’ll be doing double digits.’

She glared.

They traced the path that was quickly becoming familiar, becoming routine—Granger insisted on checking every classroom, every broom closet, every spare centimetre of space on the first floor before slipping down to the dungeons, so as to check the first floor twice (which drove him _mad_ ). Draco granted Granger no reprieve, tormenting her all along the way, pulling out all the stops and deriding everything from the way she jumped up in every class to answer questions (‘As though Doxies had gotten a bite of your arse, Granger—although surely even _they_ have higher standards than that’) to the day her Muggle parents had met each other.

By the time they’d reached the dungeons, Draco had moved on to insulting the insufferable gits she chose to call her friends.

‘What about the company _you_ keep, Malfoy?’ she finally bit out, although she had peppered him with the occasional retort throughout their patrol. ‘Crabbe and Goyle? It’s been four years and they hardly know the front end of their wands from the back! And what about Pansy Parkinson?’ She spat the name out like a curse. ‘Always disgustingly draped over your arm, _honestly_ —’

‘Jealous, Granger?’

Her bark of laughter grated on his eardrums, like dragging one of the larger cauldrons across the uneven stones of the Potions classroom floor might. ‘Jealous? More like _nauseated_ . She’s so _vain_ , she only wants you for your money, although I don’t think for all the money in the world I could ignore all the rest—’

‘It’s not as though you’d have the privilege,’ he snapped, oddly affected by her words. Malfoys were only the very best. ‘You aren’t exactly a catch.’

‘And _you_ are? Oh, of course, I forgot just how very attractive having a family of Death Eaters is!’

And just like that the temperature dropped, time ground down to a halt; Draco whirled around, just centimetres from her face—

‘You want to run that by me again, Granger?’

‘Why? It’s not as though you can deny it.’

Draco clenched his fist around his wand as they carried on past the Potions classroom. His pride stung, as though the insult towards his father had been a physical thing. It might as well have been—because no matter how he spun it to himself, Granger hadn’t technically been _wrong_ . His father _was_ a Death Eater, and Draco knew what that meant, now. He knew what it looked like, what it smelled like outside of the light of day.

It meant their home smelled of iron and magnolias (the latter a touch from his mother, to help cover up the stench of the former, which, of course, never really worked). It meant his father had come home with blood on his robes more than once over the summer, in the middle of the night, and every time he did, it meant that Draco would be locked out of the parlour until the next day. It meant that the parlour always smelt particularly of magnolias, then.

Draco knew what the life of a Death Eater felt like, after the glory and the glamour of it. He knew the gore of it, knew the meat and bones and sinew. And he didn’t even have the Dark Mark. At least, not yet.

Draco wasn’t sure whether he would have _chosen_ this path. All he knew was that he had never been given a choice. And while he truly believed that purebloods were superior—because they _were_ —he wasn’t sure whether he’d ever actually want to live or die for the cause.

A door banged shut, startling Draco out of his thoughts. They were deep within the dungeons already, and Granger was inspecting every nook and cranny for, Draco suspected, any possible speck of dust that might be up to no good.

‘Could you be a little louder, Granger? You might just wake up the whole castle…’

She glared. ‘And to think, Malfoy, you were doing such a good job of helping me forget that you exist.’

‘What are you on about?’

‘You haven’t thrown an inane or cliché insult my way in almost twenty minutes.’

Draco hid his discomfort behind a glare; had he really spaced out for so long?

‘Yes, well, even _that_ gets old after a time, doesn’t it? Everything about your presence bores me.’

‘Be bored, then,’ she said, not bothering to even look his way.

Her nonchalance ignited something in him. ‘I can’t believe that tosser paired me with you,’ he groused, shoving his way ahead of her so he wouldn’t have to look at her bushy head anymore. ‘This school’s gone to the dogs ever since my father left the Board of Governors—’

‘Your father is a vile man,’ spat Granger, flinging herself in front of him so she could stomp away.

‘Don’t you _dare_ talk about my father that way—’

‘Your father is a blood purist and a bigot! He was in that graveyard this summer when Voldemort came back! He tried to _kill me_ in second year! He hasn’t exactly done much to recommend himself!’

‘Well, when you put it that way, Granger,’ he drawled, acting as though he weren’t already quite torn up about the minor detail that his father was involved with the—frankly— _terrifying_ Dark Lord, ‘I should remember to thank him for that last bit. It’s a pity he failed.’

‘You’re insufferable!’ she yelled. ‘You’re absolutely vile, and cruel, and you don’t care about _anything but yourself_ —’

They came upon an archway, recessed deep into the wall, and Draco recognised it as the stairwell leading down to the supply cupboards. But from the way Granger marched on, ranting and raving all the way, she did not.

‘—disgusts me, it really does—’

‘Granger.’

‘No! _I_ am going to speak my mind and _you_ are going to listen! I’ve—’

‘ _Granger—_ ’

‘—half a mind to—AH!’

One moment she was stood before him, and the very next she was crashing into the darkness, down, down, further away from the lit tip of his wand every second—

And then, nothing.

Silence.

‘Granger? _Granger._ ’

Draco, despite himself, followed the stairs down to see her, crumpled, at the very bottom— and there was red— not mud, but _red—_

He stood over her, watching for movement and seeing none.

‘Merlin— _Granger,_ ’ he said more insistently.

Nothing.

Silence.

Swallowing, forcing down bile—because for all of his talk of wanting her dead, he hadn’t wanted _this_ —he reached down, pressed his fingers to her neck…

_Something._

He withdrew his hand and it came away glistening. He stared at it, then down at Granger, at the curve of her neck where her head had met the floor, at the slop of crimson that had begun to pool there…

Panicking, Draco swiped the blood off on his robes, only managing to smear it against his skin. He forced breaths in and out, in and out, out and in.

Not knowing what else he should do, he scooped her up in his arms and began his ascent up to the infirmary. Four floors and two aching arms later, he was kicking on the door as best he could— two times, three—

‘ _Just what exactly—_ oh, Merlin,’ said Madam Pomfrey upon seeing the girl in his arms, dripping scarlet onto the stones at his feet. ‘Bring her in, set her down just there… What happened?’

He recounted the story, his eardrums numb to the thrum of his voice, as he watched Madam Pomfrey fuss about Granger, waving her wand and tutting under her breath.

‘Did you move her head at all? No? It was good of you not to use a levitation spell. Her head would have bounced around too much, otherwise. You did well, Mr. Malfoy.’ The witch summoned a Blood-Replenishing Potion before tipping it into Granger’s mouth. ‘If you’d be a dear and get the Headmaster, tell him it’s urgent—the password is “Liquorice Wands”—’

Minutes later, Dumbledore marched through the doors of the infirmary, with Draco on his heels.

‘Albus—her condition is critical—it seems she’s fractured her skull—I’m considering sending her along to St. Mungo’s, or else, calling some of the staff here…’

‘Do what you must, Poppy,’ he said, before turning his startlingly blue eyes onto Draco.

The headmaster’s gaze bored into him, and although Draco knew he wasn’t using Legilimency, he felt vulnerable all the same.

‘What happened, Draco?’ he asked, in a voice far too quiet, far too soft for the situation.

Draco recounted the story again, saying that Granger had been angry to the point of distraction and fallen down the stairs in the dungeons. Dumbledore didn’t so much as blink. He simply folded his hands into his sleeves as he listened.

‘Why was Miss Granger angry with you, Draco?’ he asked, once Draco had finished.

 _What does one say to that?_ , he wondered. _“She made aspersions as to my family’s character which might not have been entirely unfounded, Sir”? “She correctly assumed that my father is a Death Eater, Sir, and that he was instrumental in the Dark Lord’s return”?_

‘A lot of reasons, apparently,’ he said, but it came out bitter, tinged with all of the bile he’d been forcing down since she’d fallen down the stairs.

But Dumbledore merely inclined his head.

‘He did a proper job carrying her in, though,’ Pomfrey cut in, and Draco was reminded that while most of the staff was prejudiced—against him, his family, his House—all Madam Pomfrey cared about was whether her students were well looked after. It buoyed something in his chest, somehow. ‘If he’d have levitated her, she’d be in a much worse state.’

‘Well,’ Dumbledore said, ‘then we must thank you, Draco, for a job well done.’

Then he returned his attention to Granger, who was lying unnaturally still on the bed before him.

He scanned her with his wand, which caused her head to pulsate with blue light, and then sighed. ‘Perhaps she is better off at St Mungo’s, if her condition doesn’t improve within the hour. I will prepare a Portkey. Draco, if you would remain, in case the Healers would like to speak with you?’

He bustled off towards Pomfrey’s office without waiting for a reply.

Draco sank down in the armchair by Granger’s bed, feeling inexplicably bad for the girl. While he didn’t care one whit for her, something nagged at his conscience, reminding him that he’d wished her dead mere moments before she’d toppled down the flight of stairs.

Pomfrey charmed Granger’s mouth open and forced another potion down her throat.

A few minutes later, Dumbledore returned, and scanned Granger again with his wand. Her head glowed, still blue, but lighter and in more steady bursts of light than it had before.

He exhaled. ‘She seems to be improving, at the very least.’

‘Don’t count your doxies before they’ve hatched,’ said Madam Pomfrey. ‘She may need St Mungo’s just yet.’

But hours passed, and still Pomfrey hovered over Granger’s prone form, until, drained of adrenalin, Draco fell into a fitful sleep. Magnolias tinged red chased his dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not every chapter will be this dark, so please stick around for the levity. And let me know what you think. :)


	3. Chapter 2: A Place To Belong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione has always been a scholar, but some lessons are just too much -- even for her.

Hermione

_9th September 1995, Third Bed From The Window, Infirmary, Hogwarts, Scotland_

Hermione struggled with her heavy eyelids, willing them to open. Something had shaken her from sleep…

She blinked awake just in time to see a set of double doors snap shut, and drifted back to sleep before she could wonder where she was.

 

::

 

Someone had drawn the curtains and opened the windows by the time Hermione had next roused awake ; the late summer sun filtered into the room, then, bathing the infirmary in light. Hedwig was perched on the ledge, blinking her doleful eyes at her. She hooted softly when their gazes met, and flew away — no doubt to nip at Harry until he came to visit her.

Hermione shook her head affectionately at the intelligent bird, and regretted it at once. She groaned at the throbbing pain in her skull.

‘Awake, are you, dear?’ asked Madam Pomfrey as she flitted into the room a moment later, tray in hand. ‘You had a bit of a nasty fall during your patrol...’

And as the matronly witch recounted the story of her accident as it had been told to her, something descended into Hermione’s stomach and settled there, crawling, making her feel distinctly ill. She had been very seriously injured, and had been saved by none other than Draco Malfoy. She spent the rest of the day processing this as she recovered, and was almost grateful when Madame Pomfrey chased an anxious Harry and Ron away from the infirmary doors later that morning.

By the next day, though, she had all but forgotten about Malfoy; by late afternoon she had grown seriously worried about finishing her assignments for the following day. Never, in all of her years at Hogwarts, had she fallen behind in her classes (save for the time she had been Petrified by a basilisk, of course), and yet she was rather behind now; her O.W.L. year was already off to a dismal start at best. It made her yearn for third year, when she had been able to simply send herself back an hour and buy herself enough time to finish all of her homework, no matter how much of it had piled up.

By that evening, she had been released from the infirmary (with the explicit demand that she _rest_ , which, of course, she had chosen to ignore). Harry found her within the hour after that, and cleared his throat after a few moments of watching her write.

‘Hm? Oh, hi, Harry,’ she said, peering at him from behind a stack of texts on defensive spells.

‘Hermione. You need to go to bed,’ he said, pulling the books away to better see her. ‘I know you bumped your head, and you want to catch up, but you’re not doing yourself any favours right now.’

Hermione bit her lip. She hadn’t told Harry or Ron how bad her accident had been; no need to worry them over something so trivial, she had decided. No matter what had happened, she had been healed and felt perfectly fine.

‘But Harry…’ She refused to look up from her unfinished essay for Defence, which was due the following day. She was _not_ going to fall behind. ‘I’m not even halfway—’

‘Hermione, it’s _half one in the morning._ ’

She did look up, then, at the clock on the mantel. It was indeed nearing two o’clock in the morning, and she _had_ to sleep, or she would never wake up in time for History of Magic the next day.

Hermione bit her lip, near to tears, and dried her essay with her wand before rolling up her parchment. She bade Harry a subdued goodnight, vowing to get some more writing done in the morning.

 

::

 

That morning, she woke up to Crookshanks’ paws on the side of her head.

‘Crooks…’ she mumbled, eyes still shut against the sunlight battering her lids. ‘Crooks. It’s only—’

She peeked her eyes open and nearly had a heart attack; it was near to nine in the morning, and she was going to be late.

As Hermione rushed down to the Great Hall ten minutes later, she reflected that the day was already off to a horrible start indeed. She had had only enough time to throw on fresh clothes and smooth down her hair, clean her teeth and pray to any deity listening that her day would improve from there on out, before flinging herself down seven flights of stairs for a slice of toast and cup of coffee.

Harry passed her the butter with a sympathetic grimace when she finally arrived at the Gryffindor table.

‘Blimey, Hermione,’ said Ron, ‘did you sleep at _all?_ ’

Hermione spared him her glare; she was much too tired and busy buttering her toast to take issue with the way Ronald chose to express his concern.

‘Did you finish it?’ Harry asked.

‘No. But we’ve double History of Magic next. I suspect I’ll be able to finish it then.’

But History of Magic came and brought with it a lecture on Gogmagog the Great, and Hermione had been forced to take notes, certain as she was that the subject would come up in their O.W.L.s. In Arithmancy, Professor Vector had taught the class a new theory, and writing an essay for another class in Double Potions was out of the question.

By the time Defence Against Dark Arts rolled around, Hermione had only had the length of her break to work on her essay, during which Harry had offered to let her copy his (for the very first time in either of their lives). Ron had told her to simply write two and a half feet of nonsense.

Refusing to write a subpar essay (or nothing at all), she had rushed to the library and set upon the shelves at once. But when the bell had rung, she had only managed to write around a foot and a half of text.

Hermione made her way from the library to Umbridge’s class, her every step marked by a profound sense of dread. She didn’t expect their new professor to be very sympathetic, but she hoped for understanding; she had, after all, cracked her skull open over the weekend, and that sort of thing tended to drain one of one’s free time.

Hermione, Harry, and Ron arrived outside the classroom a few minutes early. Despite herself, Hermione could not quash down the twinge of hope she felt that Umbridge might grant her an extension, given the nature of her accident. She told the boys she was going to talk to Umbridge, and they hung back in the corridor, giving her supportive smiles as she reached for the door handle. Harry’s smile seemed a bit tight.

Umbridge was sat at her desk, upon which sat a cup with a revolting pink tea cozy on it, and a picture of the Minister for Magic—which Hermione suspected was more than merely a decoration. The professor was grading essays from another class, and didn’t bother to look up when Hermione approached.

‘Excuse me, Professor,’ Hermione began, willing her heart to return to a normal pace. ‘I was hoping to speak with you…?’

‘Ah, Miss Granger,’ croaked the toad of a woman, as though she had only just noticed Hermione’s presence. ‘Whatever about?’

‘Well you see, Professor, this weekend I had a bit of an accident—’

‘Oh, yes. I’ve heard all about how you’d tripped down the stairs.’

Hermione’s eyes narrowed as Umbridge took a sip from her teacup. She’d said it as though in accusation, and whatever Hermione had expected from a woman who was supposedly a professional, it hadn’t been that.

‘Er, yes. Well, I cracked my skull open—’

Umbridge finished her sip with a smack.

‘—and I wasn’t able to complete my essay,’ she finished, feeling more miserable by the second.

Umbridge looked as though she had swallowed a fly, and had rather enjoyed it. ‘Tut, tut, Miss Granger,’ she said. ‘I had rather higher expectations for you than that. Why,’ she continued, her voice taking on an unbearably saccharine quality, ‘correct me if I’m mistaken, but you were granted a Time-Turner for your studies in your third year, were you not?’

Even though Hermione knew that Umbridge was being perfectly unfair, her stomach began to tighten with shame all the same. No teacher had ever taken such a tone with her before.

‘I was,’ she replied.

‘A shame, then, that you seem incapable of keeping up with a standard amount of work, now—especially considering the workload you had at only thirteen! And to think, that had been such an _accomplishment,_ for a Muggle-born.’

Hermione’s blood was on fire. Not only had the foul woman before her refused to accept a near-fatal injury as a valid excuse to turn in her homework late, but now she was judging her based on her blood status.

Umbridge grinned her froggy little grin and spoke before Hermione could find her voice to retort:

‘Detention tonight should do the trick, I think. Six o’clock in my office. Mind you watch your footing, until then.’

She _hemhem_ ’d and returned to grading her essays, closing the subject for good.

Hermione turned on her heel and marched to her seat. She would not be cowed by such a low woman, and though she was regrettably close to tears, she held her chin high as she took out her copy of _Defensive Magical Theory_ and sat, waiting for the class period to be _over with_.

Harry and Ron entered after a few minutes, with the rest of the class trickling in behind them. Ron shot Umbridge a glare when he saw the set of Hermione’s jaw, and Harry dropped into the seat next to her.

_What?,_ he mouthed at her.

She blinked away the urge to cry and scrawled a single, damning word onto a sheet of parchment she had slid between them.

_Detention_.

Harry’s jaw clenched into a rigid line and he, too, glared at Umbridge with venom in his eyes. ‘Hermione,’ he said emphatically, ‘you _can’t—’_

But just then Umbridge stood, barely altering her height as she did so.

‘Class has begun, children,’ she said pointedly in Harry’s direction, ‘and there will be no need to talk.’

 

::

 

Hermione poked at her dinner, not hungry in the slightest. ‘I suppose I should just head up now,’ she said, pushing her plate away after the seventh straight bite had tasted like ash in her mouth.

‘Hermione,’ Harry pleaded once more, as he had all throughout dinner, ‘I _mean_ it, we can go to McGonagall—’

‘I can’t, Harry. This isn’t even about my homework, it’s about my blood.’ She swallowed against the injustice of it. ‘I _have_ to go.’ She stood before Harry could argue about it any further.

The walk up to the third floor was the longest of her entire life, and yet, not nearly long enough; Hermione’s mind had begun to spin fantastical tales of just how bad the detention would be.

When at last she arrived at the professor’s door, she ignored Harry’s voice in her head insisting that she should do otherwise, and knocked.

‘Come in,’ came Umbridge’s voice from inside.

When she entered, she immediately wished she hadn't; the office was as pink and revolting as the woman herself, lined with doilies and porcelain plates with mewling kittens on them. The portrait of the Minister for Magic was there, too, its occupant spinning its lime green bowler around and around in his painted hands.

‘Oh, Miss Granger. How good of you to arrive on time,’ Umbridge mocked, and Hermione allowed herself a moment to visualise hexing her on the spot.

‘Now, my dear,’ the woman said, as though each syllable had pained her, ‘if you would?’

She gestured to a low desk, at which was set a roll of parchment and a chair; Hermione began to relax, because writing lines was a far better alternative than any of the punishments her brain had managed to conjure up.

‘You will be writing lines today,’ she said, as though it weren’t already obvious. ‘Here, use this quill, won’t you?’

Hermione stared at the barbed tip of the jetblack quill, disbelieving.

‘Where’s the ink?’ she asked, although she rather thought she knew.

‘Oh, you shan't be needing any,’ said the toad with the slightest of giggles ringing in her voice. ‘Take the quill then, won’t you, dear?’

‘I don't think I will,’ said Hermione, her suspicions confirmed. ‘This is barbaric! This goes against—’

‘You should think twice before you finish that sentence, Miss Granger. Because it sounds to me as though you're questioning the will of the Ministry.’ Umbridge’s eyes had grown wide with delight, her voice oozing with honeyed false concern.

‘And if the will of the Ministry is inhumane?’ Hermione challenged. ‘If the will of the Ministry is to torture children?’

‘It is within my authority as Senior Undersecretary to the Minister for Magic to discipline my students, Miss Granger. And naughty students must be punished.’

Hermione’s mind raced. Harry had tried to warn her. Harry—

Harry had gone against the Ministry.

Harry had stood up to Umbridge in class.

Harry had refused to lie and say that You-Know-Who _hadn’t_ been reborn in the graveyard that summer.

Harry, she knew, had been made to use that very quill.

How, she wondered, could she defend her lot without making Harry’s worse?

‘We haven’t got all night, my dear,’ Umbridge prompted.

Hermione set her gaze on the quill. Its nib, which had already borne a sinister air, now looked positively frightening. She wondered just how much it might hurt, and whether it would sting more than her pride.

‘I’m not sure whether you’re aware,’ Umbridge said after a few moments, ‘because you haven’t been in our world for very long, but the process of… petitioning the Ministry can be rather hard on Muggle-borns. Why, some even take to dangerous notions—adapted from the Muggle world, I’ve no doubt—and have to be removed from polite society; for their benefit as well as ours. There is no room at Hogwarts for political criminals, Miss Granger.’

Hermione glared. She had been so wrapped up in worrying about Harry that she hadn’t considered that, should she defy the Ministry, she could be removed from the world she’d come to love, the world she _belonged_ to, like she was so much rubbish from the back of an alley. She snatched the quill from Umbridge’s hand.

Umbridge smirked. ‘Very good. Now, with that little display a moment ago, I think this shall be very good for you, very good indeed—’

‘What am I to write?’ Hermione bit out, her hand poised over the parchment she had already begun to pretend was Umbridge’s face.

‘Tsk, tsk, Miss Granger. Perhaps you need this lesson rather more than I’d thought!’ Umbridge waddled forward, to better see Hermione maim herself, she assumed. ‘And I have just the lesson for you.’

As Hermione bit her lip and etched the words into the parchment, she realised she had been wrong.

Her pride stung far worse than her flesh ever could.

 

::

 

Hermione was late to her patrols that night. After detention, she had gone straight to Professor McGonagall's office. Her favourite professor had been horrified, and offered her some essence of murtlap and an assurance that she would bring the issue to the Headmaster at once. While Hermione hoped it would result in a ban of the blood quill, she was not convinced it would; after all, if Dumbledore had been unable to prevent the Ministry from interfering at Hogwarts in the first place, there was no telling just how much influence they wielded there.

She rubbed her hand absently on the way down to meet Malfoy in the Entrance Hall. The murtlap had helped to soothe the stinging pain, but the outline of the words had remained etched into her skin.

As she descended the grand staircase, she caught sight of Malfoy. She hadn’t thought much about him since she’d been released from the infirmary, but given the sort of weekend she had had, she’d scarcely had a spare moment to reflect on what he’d done.

‘Took you long enough, Granger,’ he said, although his tone was… different, somehow. She couldn’t put her finger on how or why it sounded different to her ears. It simply did.

Hermione said nothing. They carried on without speaking to each other, and Malfoy faltered when he realised that she meant to check the first floor only once, that night.

It was when they descended into the dungeons that he finally broke the silence.

‘Granger—about Friday...’

Malfoy trailed off, as though, for the very first time in the entire course of their acquaintance, he felt unsure of what to say.

Hermione nodded, eventually, as they passed by the damnable archway altogether. ‘Right. Thank you for that,’ she said.

The lit tip of his wand illuminated the shock on his face. She realised then that he must have expected her to blame him for her accident. In retrospect, maybe she should have; but right then she could hardly bring herself to care, so wholly consumed was she by her righteous fury at Umbridge, and at the Ministry as a whole.

It wasn’t until they had left the dungeons for the floors above that he spoke to her again.

‘Granger… your hand—it’s bleeding—’

She glanced down at the back of her hand to see that it was, in fact, bleeding. ‘Tergeo,’ she said, with no small amount of annoyance; it was the third time that night that she had had to do so. ‘The murtlap must have worn off.’

Still, Malfoy stared. ‘But Granger, you’re _bleeding._ ’

They had come to a stop. Hermione studied him for a moment; his gaze was fixed on her hand, on the little droplets of red that had crusted on her skin there, and she wondered how on earth he had managed to carry her to the hospital wing if he were that affected by the sight of her blood. She wondered whether he was simply squeamish, or whether he was worried about what he believed he might catch from a Muggle-born like her. She suspected it might be both.

‘Granger,’ he persisted, stepping closer. ‘ _why_ are you—’

He froze, and she pulled her hand out of his line of sight, but it was too late.

‘“I shall know my place,”’ he murmured.

She pushed past him, eager to be through with their patrol so that the night could finally end.

‘I already know my place,’ she grit out, ‘and it’s above people like _her_.’

They walked in ringing silence for one moment, two, before Malfoy spoke again.

‘You’re right,’ he said.

Hermione halted in her tracks, brow raised. _‘_ _What?_ ’

‘I said that you’re right,’ he repeated, with an unconcerned shrug. ‘She’s just a trumped up little half-blood from the Ministry. Muggle mother, Squib brother, tells anybody who’ll listen that she’s related to the Selwyns—’

‘You disgust me,’ she told him for the second time in as many nights of patrols. ‘You aren’t any better than she is! She threatened to have me removed from the magical community, Malfoy,’ she declared, her eyes beginning to burn, ‘when I have just as much of a right to be here as she does! Just as much of a right as you!’

She marched on down the corridor, not waiting for a reply, and for once, mercifully, a reply never came.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Hermione will catch a break eventually, I promise. But I wanted to explore intersectionality in this fic; fifth year from Hermione's point of view is the perfect opportunity to do that. It will also empower Hermione and drive the plot in some interesting ways.
> 
> Please let me know what you think. :)


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